


Kissing in the blue dark

by queenchingshih



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/M, Murder, POV Third Person Limited, Violence and Blood, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenchingshih/pseuds/queenchingshih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(first published on fanfic.net 12-13-11) Heaven is the warmth of the devil's embrace. | Violet struggles with her feelings for two different Tates that inhabit the same body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing in the blue dark

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics are from the Lana Del Ray song Video Games. Set in the universe up to 1x10.

_'It's you, it's you, it's all for you, everything I do. I tell you all the time, heaven is a place on earth with you, tell me all the things you want to do.'_

* * *

_Heaven is the heated kisses between two dead lovers._

* * *

She doesn't know why she still lets him kiss her.  _Lay her down on the bed and caress her soft skin. Make her purr like a little kitten._ Only that she knows that she never wants it to stop. When he brushes his lips over hers and darts that wicked tongue out to taste her, half of her mind often screams ' _this is heaven'_ and the other _'this is hell ';_ before joining together to admit that whatever it is, it feels too goddam good to stop. The fact of it makes her feel sick in the stomach. When her blood isn't boiling from that blinding desire for him that is.

She can't stop. It's not a matter of won't-or maybe it is, she doesn't know anymore-but every time she makes up her mind to avoid and ignore him forever he always draws her back to his side with false apologies and promises to be better and sinful kisses. It's the kisses more than anything. She's intoxicated, she's addicted, she's hopelessly and ridiculously in love. Not with him. She hasn't seen more than brief glimpses of  _her_  Tate, the one she fell in love with, in years. He flickers in occasionally to profess his love for her and promise to never hurt her again, to do damage control basically. But he's always pushed back by the other now. The other doesn't care if he hurts her, seems to delight in it actually. The other is cruel and ruthless and terrifying. She'd hate him if he was anyone else, if he wasn't all wrapped up in Tate's body.

The worst part though is how the other actually likes her, wants her,  _loves_  her. It's not the same love Tate has for her. It's not pure and selfless. It's obsessive and prone to selfishness. It's dominating and she  _loves_  it. It's so, so wrong she knows. It's on a whole new level of wrong but she can't help it. This is the Tate that donned that awful suit and raped her mom and killed all those people and fucking enjoyed doing so. Yet under his skilled hands and mouth she finds it hard to remember her own name, let alone his long list of crimes, that should be making her push him off her and run away screaming. She does scream for him, she always does, and it's never out of fear.

When he sleeps beside her she likes to study him in the dim light of dawn approaching. His face is soft in sleep, lacking the malice and anger that fuels him. He looks like the boy who liked reading about birds because they were free. That boy is now trapped, he always has been. She suddenly truly understands why he likes birds so much. The birds are what he wants to be but never can be. She strokes the cheek of her dead lover and leans forward to place a kiss on his forehead, then further down on his mouth, he reacts instantly and moves his lips under hers to kiss her back. He drinks in her soul and she sighs blissfully.

* * *

_Heaven is the smoldering heat of skin against skin in the blue dark._

* * *

They're dancing slowly around the living room without music. Ever since dying she's become less fond of the melodies she used to listen to constantly. She prefers the sound of silence, broken by breath that doesn't need breathing being exhaled and little gasps in the dead of night. The other has been strangely affectionate all day and if she didn't know better she'd think Tate is the one dancing with her right now. But she does know better, she can feel the tighter grip the other always holds her with. With Tate is was firm but gentle. In the other's arms she feels suffocated and tense and worst and strangely of all, safe. She knows now that the other would never let anybody or anything hurt her but himself. Whereas Tate wouldn't let anybody or anything hurt her  _including_  himself. And right now she isn't getting any vibes from the other that suggest he's going to hurt her so she lets herself relax a little in his vice like grip. He starts whistling a cooky little tune into her hair as they sway and she narrows her eyes in annoyance. He  _knows_  she doesn't like music anymore, she can't help but think he means to get a rise out of her. She restrains a sigh, nothing peaceful ever lasts with him around.

"Stop it. You know how I don't like music." She murmurs, drawing away a little from him. His grip tightens even more on her waist but he lets her have a her space.

"Sorry." He's not. She can see it in those black eyes and devils smirk. He never is sorry and she doesn't ever expect him to be. Yet she always tells him off and he always replies with an apology that means shit all. He kisses those thoughts away and she lets him like she always does. His long fingers play with the hem of her shirt teasingly, slipping under to dart over her skin with a feather light touch that almost burns. She bites his lip and draws blood, conveying what they both already know. She hates to be teased; and of course he loves to do so because of that so he just chuckles into her mouth and she tastes the coppery tang of his blood gushing over her tongue. She always did bite too hard, he never complains about it though so she figures he gets just as much of a sick rush out of it as she does.  _What a fucked up pair we are._  She thinks to herself as he backs her up against the wall and removes her shirt so violently that the fabric rips.

"I liked that shirt." She grumbles, not really meaning it as she watches the ripped fabric float to the ground. Right now she doesn't like anything but the feel of his skin against hers. He chuckles again and places a soft, wet- _wet with blood-_ kiss at the base of her neck. She sighs and twines her fingers into the curly locks atop his head she so adores.

"Sorry." He breathes out, breath hot over the spot he just kissed. She makes a neutral sound, not even remembering what he's apologizing for. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now. Nothing but the heat growing between them. His fingers will leave purple bruises that will fade as soon as looked at and her nails will leave bloody red scratches down his back that will heal moments after she makes them. Her ribs will crack and then heal and he'll hiss when she digs her nails into his arm. Some would call it torture but they call it lovemaking. Love leaves us all with bruises after all doesn't it? Just some are more literal than others.

* * *

_Heaven is the warmth of the devil's embrace._

* * *

She's crying and she can't stop. There's so much blood everywhere, splattered on the walls and floor and on her face.  _Red, red, red._  The lifeless bodies of the family so recently moved into the murder house lying with wide eyes in the blood. The family had been so nice for a change, no scandal or drama outside the rebellious teen stuff and arguing over working late shifts. They hadn't even been that affected by the houses usual tricks. Maybe that was the reason.  _The house likes it's residents messed up._  And there's Tate in the middle of all it all. Blood soaking into his clothes and skin. He's staring at the bodies with eyes just as wide as theirs and rocking back and forth, nervous tremor in his hand as he stares in horror at what he's done. 

 _Tate_. Tate, not the other is sitting across from her. She sobs in a mixture of relief and pain at the thought before crawling forward over the bodies and the blood to him, taking his shaking form into her arms. He seems to come out of his horror filled trance at the feel of her arms encircling him and stares at her in wonder.

"Vi?" His voice is hoarse and broken and it just makes her cry even more.

"It's me, I'm here." She whispers, tightening her hold on him, never wanting to let him go. This boy that loves her with no malice.

"I didn't mean to." He whispers back, his face buried in her shoulder. She can feel his tears dampen the material-or _is it the blood? -_  and she tries to make soothing sounds only to fail and break down sobbing again. Now it's him comforting her as she cries all the tears she's kept bottled up over the years. Losing her family, losing Tate, the darkness consuming her. She lets it all out. He mutters a chant of  _'l love you, I love you, I love you'_  over and over and it doesn't help. It's been so long since she's heard those words that they feel so wrong heard out loud coming from him.

When he tenses in her arms she knows she's lost Tate to  _him_  again. She tries to not let the disappointment wreck her. She shudders when he licks a stripe of blood off her face and she's dismayed to note that it's not in disgust. He untangles their mess of limbs and gets to his feet before surveying the carnage with an almost bored look. She just sits in the pool of blood and stares up at him with still watery eyes, praying that he'll suddenly snap back into Tate and stay that way forever. It's a foolish wish. When his gaze lands on her, his eyes flash with something she can't decipher. It she didn't know better she'd place it as a look of fondness. But the idea of him ever displaying such an emotion is laughable. He may love her in his own twisted way and want her squirming beneath him, but she sincerely doubts that fondness is something that comes into it.

"Get up, we need to get rid of the bodies." He doesn't wait for her to get up by herself and instead grabs her arm to haul her up. Their skin is slippery upon contact due to the blood but his grip is tight and firm as ever and he doesn't let her go.

 _"Why?"_  She knows he knows she doesn't mean, why they need to get rid of the bodies. She almost expects him to give her no answer at all, he never normally does. Just stares back in silence like she should already know. But this time is different and deep down she actually doesn't know and he must see that in her eyes for he speaks.

"Because I could." He answers with a shrug and a face void of all emotions. The admission almost makes her choke. She doesn't know why she's so surprised. He's a monster and monsters do things because they can. Because they're superior to the weak who have no place in this world. Their deaths will finally break them in the way that the house wants and what the house wants the house gets and he is it's ultimate weapon.

_The devil is real. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel._

Later, when his arms slide around her waist, stained with dirt and blood and the darkness she sighs sadly at the fact that his touch is so warm, so needed. She always did want the things she knew she shouldn't.


End file.
